"Describe Oriental's attire."
"Words fail me," said the checkpoint. "You'll know him when you see him. He's dressed like Pinky Lee."
"Like who?"
"Like Pee-Wee Herman."
"Oh," said Snell, understanding perfectly. The pair were just coming into view now. He sized up the Caucasian with a glance. No trouble from that quarter. The guy was obviously unarmed. The Oriental was very short and very old. He wore a red business suit that would have been well-tailored except that the sleeves flared like those of a mandarin's robes. He walked with his hands tucked into the sleeves so that they were unseen. There was plenty of room in those sleeves to conceal a pistol or a grenade.
Agent Snell drew his automatic from its shoulder holster reflexively. He was not taking any chances.
"Do not point that offensive thing at me," said the small Oriental in a squeaky voice.
"Hold on, Little Father. Let me handle this," the Caucasian said.
"Please stand perfectly still," Snell ordered. "I need backup here," he called into the walkie-talkie. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, two other agents came around the corner, pistols at the ready.
"What's the problem, pal?" the Caucasian asked.
"No problem, if you cooperate. I'd like your friend to take his hands out of his sleeves. Slowly."
"Is he crazed?" asked the Oriental of the taller man.
"Just do it. He looks nervous."
The Oriental shrugged and separated his sleeves, revealing what agent Snell at first mistook for a handful of needles. Then he realized he was looking at the longest fingernails he had ever seen in his life.
"Okay;" Snell said slowly. "I guess there's no problem." The other agents lowered their weapons.
"Excellent," said the Oriental brightly. "Now perhaps you can render us some assistance. We are seeking the residence of the President of Vice."
The pistols came back up.
"What do you want to know for?" asked Snell.
"We're tourists," said the Caucasian hastily.
"Tourists are not allowed into Blair House," said Snell.
"Our mistake," replied the Caucasian. "We'll be on our way now."
"I'll have to ask for identification before you go," Snell said.
The Caucasian turned his pockets inside out, showing empty linings.
"Must have left mine back in Peoria," he said.
"I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju. I carry no identification because all worthy persons know of me," the Oriental proclaimed.
"You don't have any identification either?" asked Snell.
"If you wish someone to vouch for me, ask your President. He knows me personally."
"He does?" said Snell, for a heart-stopping moment wondering if he had stopped a visiting dignitary.
"Yes," said the Oriental, returning his hands to his sleeves. "I saved his life once."
Behind the two men, one of the other agents mouthed a silent word: crackpots. Snell nodded.
"Why don't you just go on your way?" he said.
"That's what we were doing," said the Caucasian. Agent Orrin Snell watched them walk away.
"Talk about the odd couple," Snell joked, shaking his head. "Did you hear what he called the little guy-father. Okay, everybody back to your stations."
After his men had returned to their positions, Snell couldn't resist looking down the street after the strange pair. They were gone. Pennsylvania Avenue was deserted and there was no obvious place the pair could have gone. They were not across the street. He radioed to the next checkpoint.
"I've lost sight of a male Caucasian and an Oriental coming your way. Any contact?"
"Negative," was the reply.
Snell rushed up the Blair House steps and knocked on the ornate door in code.
Another agent poked out his head. "No problems?" Snell demanded.
"None. What do you have?"
"Nothing. Must be a false alarm. I'll be glad when this scare is over," he said, returning to the street. He took his usual position and wondered where the pair had gone. As long as they hadn't gone into Blair House, then it wasn't his problem, he decided.
Remo paused with his head just under the roof cornice of Blair House.
"Getting old, Little Father?" Remo called down. "You used to be the first one to the top."
The Master of Sinanju climbed around a window until he had reached Remo's level.
"I am not getting old," Chiun snapped. "It is these American clothes. They are not made for scaling."
"Maybe you should go back to kimonos," Remo suggested, grinning.
"Nonsense. I am in service to America. I will dress like an American. Did you see how I got us past that foolish guard without arousing his suspicions?"
"That's not how I remember it, Chiun. And if you don't lower your voice we're not going to get past the guards on the roof."
"There are guards on the roof?"
"Listen. You can hear them breathing."